Never Giving Up
by Bottlebrush
Summary: Why did Sirius betray the Potters? Remus keeps thinking until he finds an answer. It's not the right answer, but it will do.


Title: Never Giving Up

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter world or its characters. J. K. Rowling does.

Summary: Why did Sirius betray the Potters? Remus keeps thinking until he finds an answer. It's not the right answer, but it will do.

_Riccione_

_16__th__ August 1982_

Dear Sirius,

You will never read this letter. It will never be sent, because you would not be permitted to receive it, nor would I want you to. Dumbledore suggested I write it; he said something about it "clearing my head". I dismissed the idea at the time, but now after nearly ten months my head is still not clear so I may as well give it a try.

"At the time"…you know when that was. After hours of questioning and threats I had begun to feel as if _I_ were the traitor and murderer, so when they finally let me go I was grateful to place my future in Dumbledore's hands. I had lost my job at the Registry; I am still not quite sure why, but it seemed inevitable. Dumbledore sent me to stay with Hagrid for a few weeks. Hagrid took care of me, as he would one of his foundling animals. He talked to me without expecting an answer, he fed me and made no comment whether I ate or not. I helped him with jobs about the house and grounds. His presence was a comfort. He radiates strength and endurance; I felt he had suffered much in his life and had come through it, and I began to think I might too.

I tried not to think about you, with the result that I thought about little else. Sitting by Hagrid's fire, warm and comfortable, I thought of the persistent chill I have been told permeates Azkaban. Eating Hagrid's basic cooking, I thought how much better it was than what prisoners eat. Listening to tales about the exploits of the latest batch of first-years, which he stored up to amuse me, I thought of the company you were keeping. I told myself you deserved it, and tried hard to believe it, to ease my conscience of the guilt I felt for being the only one of us alive and free. In all honesty, I would not have exchanged my situation for yours, but in the beginning I would gladly have exchanged it for James's or Peter's. I wanted to die, but even as I contemplated suicide I knew I would never take that step. It would have been a surrender to circumstances and something – perhaps the influence of my religiously-inclined grandmother – told me it would be wrong; the one irretrievable sin from which there is no turning back, no redemption. The one mistake that can never be erased.

So I survived, and thanks to Hagrid's simple undemanding friendship I regained my interest in and even some of my enthusiasm for living. I spent Christmas with my mother – it was her first Christmas without my father, and it was a quiet holiday but we comforted each other.

Although I mourned my father's death, I could not help feeling glad that he never knew of your treachery. He liked you so much, after you had won him round from his initial suspicion of you. He died believing you to be a good man.

In January Dumbledore sent me here, to Italy, on a vital mission – to catalogue the library of his old friend Professor Marconi. Can you believe that? To catalogue a library! Well, I had nothing better to do. And there really is a Professor Marconi, and he does have a library, a very extensive one. The work was pleasant and, with eight months in which to complete it, not at all demanding. I spent part of the winter and early spring travelling around Italy looking at ruins and museums and art galleries. I had always intended to come here and explore these places, and I had thought to bring you with me, but the war put these plans on hold, and now – how I wish you could have been there. You would have loved the art, the beauty, the antiquity. I was one of the few people privileged to know that side of your personality which appreciated such things. While I toured the exhibits I spoke to you in my head, describing them, imagining your reaction. My inner eye could see your face, awestruck by beauty. It did not appear the face of a murderer. But then, it never did.

The summer has been divided between work, and sitting on the beach eating ice-cream and watching Muggles on holiday. Muggle-watching is restful and completely irrelevant to anything that matters. There are two teenage brothers and their younger sister who play here every day throwing beach-balls and frisbees to each other; they are all very handsome, blond and tanned. I imagine how you and I would tease each other, each pretending to be jealous of the other looking at the boys. Overhearing their parents' conversation with others on the beach, I learned they are Norwegian. Yesterday their frisbee landed at my feet and I handed it to the little girl, who gave a sort of nod and a quick smile, and ran back to her brothers, dodging the cycling _gelati_-peddler who wobbled over the sand. I sit here in the sun, the cool sweet taste of ice-cream in my mouth, observing the antics of idle happy Muggles, while you…yes, you deserve it, everyone says. But is there really _that_ much difference between you and me?

Anna, the waitress at my hotel, told me it will close for six months at the end of September. She will go to her home in the north of Italy, where she will spend the winter at her mother's house, earning money making garments on a knitting machine – a Muggle equivalent of Molly's magic needles. I wonder if that is something I could do? I would be working at home, so no-one would care if I took a day off at the full moon, and the wearers of the pullovers and jumpers would not know they were made by a werewolf. Of course, modern Muggles don't even believe werewolves exist. At least, at home and here in Italy they do not. It may be different in the Slav lands across the Adriatic. I shall not go there to find out.

_23__rd__ August 1982_

Dear Sirius,

Last night it rained. I walked along the sea front, looking idly at the stalls where tourist souvenirs and jewellery were on sale. The rain felt warm and not unpleasant. The Norwegian family went home yesterday. I have completed my work on Professor Marconi's library, and he declares himself satisfied with it. Next week I return home for a few days, before proceeding with the next of Dumbledore's plans for me: a two-year course of study at Durmstrang. I am to learn all about the Dark Arts. This at least proves that he trusts me and does not believe, as some do, that I must have been involved in your alleged crimes. This time I shall not be obeying him passively, for lack of any other motivation, as I did when I came to Italy. I am going to Durmstrang because I want to. I want to learn all I can about the dark side of magic. From things Dumbledore said, I have the impression that he does not believe Voldemort has gone for ever. And I want to be ready, with all the knowledge I can acquire, to defeat the dark one finally and send him to the everlasting death he deserves. I want my revenge on him for taking you from me, and if that is an unworthy motive, it is one for which I will gladly die fighting.

_Durmstrang_

_26th September 1982_

Dear Sirius,

Should I address you thus? I know it's merely common usage, people address others as "Dear" when they are threatening them with legal action for the payment of debts. But I ask myself – are you still dear to me, after everything? All I can think is: _I wish it hadn't happened. I wish he hadn't done it._ But I can't comprehend what you did. Three facts, taken together, make it impossible. The first is that you caused James's death. The second is that you loved him, more than you loved anyone. I couldn't write that if you were going to read it, because you would deny it, but we both know it is true. I didn't mind. Your heart was big enough for both of us, and I had you in bed. I had what James didn't even want, and I am – still – thankful to him for not wanting it. The third fact is that you would never have harmed me. I know this absolutely, because you told it me not in words that can lie, but with every touch of your hands, your mouth, your body. The body is honest. And if you would not have harmed me, how was it that you could betray _James_ to his death? _There must be some mistake._ There is some flaw in the logic, something I am overlooking. And confronted by an impossibility, how can I judge you? Love is not conditional on good behaviour. It is not given or withheld as a reward or punishment. It just is. So you are still "Dear Sirius".

This is a terrible place. Would you believe, our tutor is none other than Professor Reichenbach, the Defence master from Hogwarts? But that is not what I meant by "terrible". I am being used as educational material. That's something else I would not write if you could read it, because it would sadden and enrage you. They branded me with a mark which they say signifies a werewolf. They did this, without warning, in the lecture room in front of a score of students, and they discussed me as if I were not present, or as if I were an animal that could not understand speech. And the cell they gave me for my transformation is open to public display. Students are not merely permitted but compelled to attend and watch the spectacle. You know how long it was before I could bring myself to let you and James and Peter witness a transformation, and you were my friends whom I trusted. Imagine my humiliation and misery in knowing that some sixty or so students, all strangers to me, see and hear everything, from my screams of pain when the transformation first takes hold, to my naked bleeding human body at the end. I wonder if Dumbledore knew this would happen, and why he did not warn me. Perhaps he thinks he did. He did tell me Durmstrang is a "harsher environment" than Hogwarts. I find that something of an understatement. I confess I thought of leaving the place. But I am here for a purpose, and I will keep to that purpose. I will learn all Durmstrang can teach me. I will not be driven away.

_Durmstrang_

_5__th__ October 1982_

Dear Sirius,

Things are improving here. I have found a friend, a student from Canada. I wonder if you would like him. I think you would not _dislike_ him, but you might find him dull. He is an honest, open, "I-speak-my-mind" person, not too impressed by authority, who stood up for me when I was being tormented in our first class. Since then we have been much in each other's company, taking our meals together, passing our leisure time in games like wizard chess (just imagine, I occasionally _win_ a game of chess now!) and helping each other with our studies. He is intelligent in a methodical, persevering way, but incapable of those leaps of intuition which make connections between apparently unrelated facts and lead to great discoveries. Most of the other students seem to be coming round to accepting me as one of themselves, and I know this is because Allan has spoken up for me and dispelled some of their fears and prejudices. He is a good, kind man, like…I was about to write, like _you_, until I remembered things you did which were not good nor kind. Is it because you are a Black, that there is that vein of cruelty in you? You were never cruel to me…but _James_? I can only echo Peter's last words, "How could you?" You were like brothers for seven years, and then – his best man, godfather to his son…was that it? You were jealous because he married Lily? But you had me. You loved me. This is what I promised myself I would not do: going over these incomprehensible facts trying to make sense of them when I know I never will. Another question has just come to me: What would I do if you stood here in front of me, now? Give you up to the authorities? Kill you myself, if that seemed more merciful than sending you back to Azkaban? Or would I take you in, feed and shelter and clothe you? Send you away with my wand and all the gold I could lay my hands on? I honestly don't know. And I will never need to find out, because it will never be. Nobody escapes from Azkaban. I will never see you again. I must accept that truth, believing it with my heart as well as my mind, if I am to make any sort of life for myself. Writing these letters has not helped me to find any answers. Only more questions.

_Durmstrang_

_24__th__ June 1983_

Dear Sirius,

My first year at Durmstrang nears its end. It has been a profitable time; I have learned much and am the star student of my year, somewhat to Professor Reichenbach's surprise. But I am troubled because something I have lately begun to fear has happened. It seems my good friend Allan has fallen in love with me. I never meant it to happen; even when I realised he was gay, I thought we could just be friends. But yesterday he declared it, and I made a complete fool of myself repulsing him like some Victorian maiden. Was I wrong? Sometimes I think so; I owe him immeasurably, for making this past year tolerable for me. Surely it would not have cost me so much to give him what he wanted? Then again I think it would never have been what he wanted; sooner or later he would have realised I was only doing it to please him and that I had no desire for it, and that would not be what he needs. He should be loved without reserve, and I can't do that, however much I wish to. I love his kind heart and his honest, dependable character, but I don't want sex with him. I don't want sex with anyone.

How surprised you would be to read that! I remember one day, near the end of our seventh year, the four of us around the fire in the Common Room. You had just invited me to come and live with you after we finished school, and were enthusing about how much fun it would be, to be free to get up when we liked, and eat when and what we liked. I added "And have lots of sex," which made James choke on his tea and Peter nearly fall out of his chair. Even you raised your eyebrows a little. Of course I knew how startled you would all be at my saying something like that, and that was partly why I said it. But truly, sex with you was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. I loved everything we did together. But that was the point; that we did it _together_. I had, and have, no wish to do it with anyone else. Not even a dear friend like Allan. I hope he will forgive me and remain my friend. Perhaps that is asking too much. I am going home for the summer.

D_urmstrang_

_7__th__ September 1983_

Dear Sirius,

Yet another letter that will never be sent, another that I would not want you to read, because I would not give you false hope. If it does turn out to be false, only I will have to live with it. But if not – I scarcely dare think of the possibilities.

There is a new teacher at Durmstrang this year, Professor Fishbein, from Ireland. He is teaching a Muggle art called psychotherapy, which the headmaster here believes may have some connection with Dark Magic. Be that as it may, I have enrolled on the course and already have learned much of interest. It concerns illnesses of the mind which can cause the subject to behave in irrational and uncharacteristic ways. Sometimes people imagine they hear voices which tell them to commit criminal acts, and these voices are not sent by wizards, but arise from within the subject's own mind, the hidden part of the mind which we cannot see but which everyone, wizard and Muggle alike, has. It is not the subject's fault if he suffers from such an illness, it is his misfortune. The tendency to these illnesses can be inherited, and the likelihood is increased if the parents are related. Your parents were cousins. And there have been Blacks whose opinions and behaviour have been unconventional, to say the least. If what you did was the result of an illness of the mind, then it was not your fault and you should not be in Azkaban. You should be in hospital, cared for by healers who try to cure you of this affliction. That is what would happen in the Muggle world. Muggle justice is superior to ours, in some ways.

So, I shall learn all I can about this subject, which from what I can tell so far appears to be in part Muggle science, part the most obscure of Dark Arts, and part pure nonsense. But it gives me hope. If I can convince the authorities that you are ill, maybe your imprisonment will be made more tolerable, and your eventual freedom may be hoped for. And I need no longer feel guilty for loving you.

My other news is happy; Allan has accepted the fact that I cannot return his love, and is willing to go on being my friend. I am very lucky to have such a friend, and I will try to find a way to make it up to him. I would love him if I could, but that side of life is over for me. I do not even wish it were otherwise.

_Durmstrang,_

_7__th__ January 1984_

Dear Sirius,

As I feared, my hopes regarding your re-assessment as mentally ill have been squashed. No one will listen to me at the Ministry, and even Dumbledore, though he conceded that there might be some truth in my suggestion, held out no hope that the authorities would consider it. I wrote what I thought a cool, well-balanced letter to the _Prophet_, hoping to raise public support for your case. It was published in a somewhat garbled version, but that is to be expected when one writes to the Press.

The response of readers was also to be expected, I suppose. Unanimously they rejected the suggestion that you might be treated as a patient rather than as a criminal, and one went so far as to say that if you were indeed mad, as he put it, you should be killed like a rabid dog. I gained no support at all.

I will not give up. I will raise the matter again every year; it may be that with the passage of time wizard society may become gentler and more willing to make the effort to understand instead of taking the lazy judgemental way.

And if I fail I can still hope that, though I never see you again in this life, beyond this world there is a place where wrongs are righted, errors are forgiven, and wounds of the mind and spirit are healed; a place where you and I can be together again, in love and innocence. I will hold to that hope. Farewell, my Padfoot.

Your Moony.


End file.
